cigarito. Taking a different path from the one the others followed, we
walked some distance, talking of ordinary matters, both avoiding the
subject of Diego Estenega by common consent. And yet I was convinced
that she carried on a substratum of thought of which he was the
subject, even while she talked coherently to me. On our way back the
conversation died for want of bone and muscle, and, as it happened, we
were both silent as we approached a small adobe hut. As we turned the
corner we came upon Estenega and Valencia. He had just bent his head
and kissed her.

Valencia fled like a hare. Estenega turned the hue of chalk, and I
knew that blue lightning was flashing in his disconcerted brain. I
felt the chill of Chonita as she lifted herself to the rigidity of a
statue and swept slowly down the path.

"Diego, you are a fool!" I exclaimed, when she was out of hearing.

"You need not tell me that," he said, savagely. "But what in heaven's
name--Well, never mind. For God's sake straighten it out with her.
Tell her--explain to her--what men are. Tell her that the present
woman is omnipotently present--no, don't tell her that. Tell her
that history is full of instances of men who have given one woman the
devoted love of a lifetime and been unfaithful to her every week in
the year. Explain to her that a man to love one woman must love all
women. And she has sufficient proof that I love her and no other
woman: I want to marry her, not Valencia Menendez. Heaven knows I will
be true to her when I have her. I could not be otherwise. But I need
not explain to you. Set it right with her. She has brain, and can be
made to understand."